


Twenty Sherlolly Prompts: And The Winner Is...

by MizJoely



Series: Twenty Sherlolly Prompts [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Almost Crack, F/M, Fluff, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:19:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3810154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Molly go undercover as engaged couple Mary Popham and Bert Beckham in order to solve the murder of Poindexter fforde-Banks. Does real romance ensue? Have you read my stories???</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Sherlolly Prompts: And The Winner Is...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forthegenuine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegenuine/gifts).



> A/N: So here it is, the penultimate story for my 20 Sherlolly prompts! Only one more to go in this series! Thanks for sticking with it and for all the lovely comments, they make my day! 
> 
> This is dedicated to Forthegenuine: Sherlolly with a statue and medals (because of a lovely message she sent me on tumblr!)

“Sherlock,” Molly said out of the side of her mouth in between smiles and waves at the crowd of reporters, “what the hell is going on?”

“The paparazzi think they’ve finally found the missing heir to the fforde-Banks fortune,” he replied, doing a far better job at not moving his lips as he, too smiled and waved. A flash went off, far brighter than necessary, and Molly winced and blinked her watering eyes. “Oi! Watch that!” Sherlock said crossly, causing Molly to giggle at his insistence on staying firmly in character, even under such ludicrous circumstances. And since she was supposed to be a bubble-headed shop-girl, the giggle was entirely in character.

Less in character, however, was the warm shiver that went up her spine when Sherlock slung his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to his side and squint-glaring at the crowd. She still couldn’t believe she was doing this – pretending to be ‘Mary Popham’, the fiancée of ‘Bert Beckham’ who was in turn supposedly the illegitimate (and oldest) son of Poindexter fforde-Banks, recently deceased creator of some truly preposterous inventions…that had earned him even more preposterous amounts of money.

Although she’d agreed to the deception – a necessary one, Sherlock had assured her, to smoke out fforde-Banks’ murderer – she hadn’t expected the paparazzi to be involved. Sherlock, on the other hand…well, she wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one to contact them in the first place, the git!

After a few more seconds preening for the camera (on his part) and giggling nervously (all Molly), her fake fiancé finally begged off being photographed and pushed his way through the crowd to the posh (borrowed) sports car. A Jaguar, deep forest green, flashy but not too flashy. Well, it wouldn’t be too flashy if it wasn’t for the bright red racing stripe the car’s actual owner had painted along both sides, culminating in a set of stylized wing/flames over each taillight. Molly would have much preferred an unembellished model, but since neither ‘Bert’ nor ‘Mary’ were subtle characters, she supposed it made sense.

As Sherlock ostentatiously handed her into the passenger side, she tucked a strand of her temporarily-blonde hair behind her ear. It was teased to within an inch of its life – Mary Watson’s work, that, the woman was a whiz with a comb and merciless when it came to using hairspray – and rose far higher above Molly’s head than she was used to. She’d also agreed to having it cut shorter than she’d worn it since uni, to just above her shoulders; combined with the overdone makeup and gigantic movie-star sunglasses (not to mention the tight, low cut dress, ultra-high heeled pumps and extremely long fake fingernails) she was the perfect picture of a woman who was used to getting attention, especially from men.

Not at all like Molly Hooper, to be sure.

As Sherlock bounced into the driver’s seat and started the car, she glanced idly out at the road. She should win an award for best transformation for the part she was currently playing, she mused. Sherlock certainly seemed to like it. Well, either that or he was extremely into his own role, since he’d actually held her hand and hugged her even when there was no one to see them. In fact, when they were alone in their borrowed flat (it was amazing how many people owed him favors and were grateful enough to actually follow through when he called them in!) he tended to either sling his arm round her shoulder while they watched telly, or else lay with his head in her lap so she could card her fingers through his temporarily-ginger (and slicked back for public consumption like today) curls.

As she pondered the question of her altered appearance and its (possible) effect on him, she also thought about his own new look. She hadn’t thought he could find shirts any tighter than the button-downs he normally wore under his bespoke suits, but ‘Bert’ was very fond of lycra and other stretchy, body-hugging fabrics when it came to his own shirts, as well as skinny jeans and multi-colored trainers. Usually in clashing colors with the body-hugging shirts. And they said SHE had no skills at coordinating colors!

She let out a soft snort of amusement, but was brought back into the moment by the feel of Sherlock’s hand on her knee, squeezing gently. Startled, she whipped her head around to stare at him. “Is something wrong?” Visions of the murderer chasing after them in another car danced through her mind, but before she could crane her head around to look, Sherlock shook his head and frowned.

“Nothing’s wrong, no one’s following us, and Molly, you are completely wrong.”

“About what?” she asked, feeling defensive even though she had no idea what he was talking about.

He spared a glance at her, his gaze serious, before retuning his attention to the road. He operated the car with a skill and panache that she suspected was only a small part of his persona; Mary had told stories about a wild ride on the back of a borrowed motorcycle the night John had nearly been burnt in a Guy Fawkes bonfire, and Molly would have dearly loved such an experience of her own. This was pretty terrific, or at least it had been until Sherlock’s words.

“About this, you looking like that and me finding it more attractive than the way you usually look. I don’t.”

“You don’t what? Find me attractive?” Molly was only half taking the piss with him; no woman liked to be told she wasn’t attractive, even if she’d long since given up on the man of her dreams actually feeling something more for her than friendship.

Instead of getting flustered or scowling at her with his patented ‘don’t be an idiot’ expression, Sherlock said, “Yes, Molly, I find you attractive. You, not ‘Mary Popham’,” he clarified. “I can’t wait for this case to be over – which I estimate will be in less than week, after the murderer makes his move to get rid of the troublesome ‘new heir’ – so you can color your hair and let it grow back out and wear your own clothes again. They’re much more flattering to you than all this false flash and glitz.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t think of anything to say to such a nice – and unexpected! – compliment. “Um, thanks,” she finally managed.

He gave her leg another squeeze – oh, wait, he hadn’t removed his hand, why not? – and turned his head to smile at her again. “So. Molly. Presuming Mr. fforde-Banks’ greedy son – or possibly his daughter but I suspect it’s her younger brother who’s the murderer – doesn’t manage to off me in the next few days, do you think we could finally go out for those chips? And maybe coffee?”

Molly blinked, opened her mouth, blinked again, shut her mouth, stared down at the hand still resting comfortably on her stocking-clad knee, then finally managed, “Are you asking me on a date? Oh, stupid, sorry, of course not! You mean as a congratulatory thing, cause you’ll finally be able to eat properly once the case is over, and you know how much I love fish and chips and…”

She fell silent as Sherlock abruptly removed his hand from her knee and replaced it on the steering wheel. He just as abruptly pulled the car over to the curb, ignoring the honks of protest from the driver he’d cut off to do so. Once they were parked, he removed first his seatbelt and then hers. “Molly Hooper, of course I’m asking you on a proper date. It’s about time, don’t you think?” He grinned, a wicked grin that did very funny things to her insides and certainly was the cause of her sudden inability to breathe. He clasped her hands in his, staring into her eyes as he said, “You’re not engaged – well, except for our fake engagement, and although I would rather skip that particular step and go right to the wedding, I doubt very much you’d be happy if I skipped over the actual proposal part. So we’ll do the conventional thing, have a few more dates, I’ll do my best to get into your knickers, you’ll put me off until you’re sure I’m not having you on or just doing it because I think it’s what you want, John will be flummoxed and Mary will give us knowing smirks, then you’ll move into Baker Street with that ridiculous cat, and…”

“Wait, stop!” Molly ordered, pulling her hands free of his. Her head was whirling; where had all of this come from? 

She asked Sherlock that very question and this time he did give her the patented Sherlock ‘don’t-be-an-idiot’ look. “Come on, Molly, surely you know I’ve been in love with since…well, since before I came back from being not-dead. And now that the Moriarty imposter’s been dealt with and I no longer have the Magnussen case hanging over me and you’ve kicked Meat Dagger to the curb, there’s nothing standing in our way, is there?” An expression of sudden doubt clouded his features, and he thrust his head forward in order to more closely study her face. “Or have you fallen out of love with me? That would be…very awkward,” he admitted. “But if that’s the case, then just delete everything I just said and we’ll continue on as we have been. But with, erm, fewer dates of course.”

“Dates?” Molly continued to stare at him, although she couldn’t help but notice how close his lips were to hers. “When have we gone on…oh!” The penny dropped. “You mean, when you’ve asked me to help you on cases…those were…dates?”

“Some of them. Some were actually just cases. But surely you realize I had no need of a fake fiancée to handle this particular case?”

She responded not with words but with an impetuous kiss. Her arms were around his neck and he made an “oomph” of surprise – or possibly pain since, in her enthusiasm, she knocked him up against the driver’s side door – but immediately responded by kissing her back.

They were interrupted by a sudden flash of light; Molly blinked and looked over her shoulder to see one of the obnoxious reporters grinning cheekily at the two of them. “Ta for the great snap, you two lovebirds!” He dashed off as Sherlock scowled and made as if to open his door and go after him.

That picture was the one the papers and websites used to herald Sherlock’s triumphant closing of the fforde-Banks murder case three days later, much to her amusement and his disgruntlement. She cheekily had a copy framed and placed it on the mantle at Baker Street between Billy the skull and a gorgeous bronze statue of “The Kiss” by Gustav Klimt, which had been a gift from Jan fforde-Banks, to thank them for solving her father’s murder. She’d been unhappy about her brother Mickey being the murderer, of course, but Sherlock cynically noted that she now had all her father’s lovely money to herself, and that could make up for a lot of things. 

Personally Molly thought he should have accepted the medal the police tried to give him for taking down Mickey fforde-Banks before he could shoot anyone with his illegal hand-gun, but of course Sherlock would have none of it. “Save the medal for the real heroes,” he’d said, sounding quite modest, but Molly had bitten back a grin, knowing full well he just didn’t want the fuss and bother. Especially since the medal would have to be presented at some sort of banquet, and speeches would be made…no, not his style at all.

Nor was it her style; when they were married three months later, it was quite the modest affair, held at the Holmes family home and officiated over by, of all people, Sherlock’s brother Mycroft. Molly’s brother and his girlfriend flew in from California; Iris and George Holmes beamed proudly at their boy and his bride; Mrs. Hudson bawled unabashedly on Greg Lestrade’s shoulder; and John and Mary’s eight-month-old daughter Tillie slept through the entire thing while her parents stood as Best Man and Matron of Honor at Sherlock and Molly’s sides.

The only award he would ever need, Sherlock confided in his new bride when they were finally alone together, was the shiny gold band adorning his finger. And Molly Hooper, now Molly Hooper-Holmes, could only admire the matching band on her own finger, and agree.


End file.
